Sunday, December 27, 2015

48th Letter: I Can't Explain Why

When silvery daylight causes
beads of rain to shine
precarious on the tips
of bare December branches,
it makes me think of you.

Wednesday, December 16, 2015

47th Letter: I Said

I said to Theodore Roethke,
bumblebee the winter.

I said to Wystan Auden,
martini the doldrums.

I said to Dylan Thomas,
ocean me in holy passion.

I said to Estlin Cummings,
rose me in wisdom,
snow me in yes.

I said to William Shakespeare,
sonnet me immortally.

I said to Emily Dickinson,
bobolink the cloister.

I said to Countee Cullen,
beauty the world
in colour and majesty.

I said to Mary Oliver,
whitman the stones
of the timeless river.

I said to John Keats,
drowse me in delight.

I said to Fr Hopkins,
glory me in grandeur,
grace me in proclaim.

I said to Miss Moore,
fable me to felicity.

I said to Elena Lee,
garden the world
with gratitude!

Sunday, December 13, 2015

46th Letter: Notebook

I deemed December air
electric with the imminence
of first snow. But I
was mistaken. It rained later.


Lemon zinger tea
at a few ticks after eight.


I often epitomize
William Stafford's advice
to cure writers' block:
Lower your standards
and keep going.


Fr O'Flaherty in the confessional:
It is in our DNA to be joyful!


This weekend is Gaudete Sunday,
which means Rejoice, be glad,
when the rose-coloured candle
is lighted on the Advent wreath.


Ghirardelli chocolates, a bag of popcorn,
coffee filters, a loaf of bread,
a half-gallon of milk, pre-shave lotion,
and several other things at the CVS.


Dust under the armchair
cousin Steve gave me
where magazines sit.


Fr Barrett said the 5.15.
He's a year shy of ninety.
His words gabble forth
in an irrepressible rush;
his eyes shine with the kindness
of an old Irish saint.


Your poems are a land of peace.
Your poems are a voice of kindness.
Your poems are a home of sound.